The Tenant of Lyonesse Hall
by lady-rhian
Summary: Seven years after the Final Battle, Severus Snape has been declared dead, and his property has reverted to the Ministry. Hermione purchases the Prince manor with the intention of renovating it. Complete summary in chapter one.
1. Chapter 1

_Complete Story Summary: _Seven years after the Final Battle, Severus Snape has been declared dead, and his property has reverted to the Ministry. Desperate to get away from her deadbeat job, Hermione purchases the Prince manor with the intention of renovating it, inheriting with it a rather forlorn house-elf, empty stables, and a well-stocked library. And, to her surprise, the ghost of one of Snape's ancestors. Or is it?

_Disclaimer_: Anything you recognize belongs to JKR. She graciously lets us play with her toys, and I promise to put them back when I'm finished.

_Author's Note_: This is written for Ariadne, who asked for a rakish Snape and wistful Hermione by a seacoast village with a manor and a few other details you'll learn about along the way. Many thanks to the wonderful team behind this chapter: sshg316 for the countless hours spent helping me work up this story, tonksinger for her encouragement and keen eye, richardgloucester for cleaning up my overt Americanisms, and Machshefa for offering a deft psychological touch that sharpens prose of every kind. Any mistakes here are mine.

The title is shamelessly nicked from Anne Bronte's _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, _which I am currently reading but which bears no resemblance to the story that will unfold here.

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><p>It all started with an obituary… er, of sorts. The sort of notice in a newspaper that makes one sit up and ask, what the fuck have I been doing with my life?<p>

That sort.

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><p>SNAPE DECLARED DEAD<p>

_Severus Snape, former professor and headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was declared dead this morning, May 9, 2005 at 7 a.m. in accordance with Wizarding Decree #27 that a missing witch or wizard may be declared legally dead on the seventh hour of the seventh day of the seventh year after their disappearance. In the absence of "next of kin," the Ministry of Magic will repossess Snape's properties, including a house in Manchester and Lyonesse Hall in Cornwall. _

_An anonymous Ministry official's speculation that the properties will be searched for evidence of dark magic prompted Harry Potter to publicly express outrage in a hallway at St. Mungo's (Mrs. Ginny Potter is pregnant with their second child – turn to page 6 for Rita Skeeter's article on hermaphroditic tendencies in the Potter line). Mr. Potter loudly reminded those present that Snape was cleared of all charges less than a year after the war's end. Snape was personally defended by Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, who suspended his authority for the duration of the trial in order to devote himself to the case. Numerous witches and wizards stepped forward to assist in the defense of Severus Snape, among them Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick, Arthur Weasley, Narcissa Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, and, of course, Harry Potter. Snape's failure to reappear after his trial solidified public opinion that, in spite of his missing body, he had indeed been murdered by V— on May 2, 1998 mere hours before the conclusion of the Final Battle._

Hermione Granger laid the _Prophet _down on the table. Seven years. Had it been that long?

The sunshine that splayed across the table stood in stark contrast to where her mind dwelt. She and Harry had been the last to see him. To see him alive. She had been wracked with guilt, had even—

The man was dead, and his property was for sale. The matter was settled.

Shaking her head, she adjusted her sunglasses and checked her watch. Blaise was seven minutes late. She sighed. Just as they had made a tradition of having a Wednesday Happy Hour at Fortescue's, Blaise had made a tradition of being late.

She took a spoonful of her ice cream—vanilla with a splash of Irish cream—and closed her eyes, relishing the sweet flavor and the warmth of the sun on her face, when she heard him approach.

"Started without me, eh, girl?"

She opened her eyes and saw Blaise leaning against a chair, arms folded over his chest. "I always start without you." She pushed his ice cream across the table as he sat down, and he slid four sickles over in return. "Now shut up and let me enjoy this."

Blaise grinned and took a mouthful of his double-scoop chocolate sundae. "What would I do without you?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Hermione said, drumming her fingernails on the table, and Blaise snorted.

"Yes, Mum," he said as he swallowed. "So," he continued, not giving her time to respond, "did you see the article in the _Prophet_?"

"About Snape?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah. What did you think?"

She paused. "There's not much to say."

"I just…" Blaise started. "I don't want to pry, but you…"

"I was the last person to see him alive, I helped Kingsley organize his defense, I cried on the stand during my testimony?" Hermione stared at the table. "Like I said, there's not much to say."

"They're selling the properties, you know," Blaise said, arching an eyebrow.

"What are you suggesting?"

He took a spoonful of ice cream.

"_Blaise_."

He made a show of swallowing, attracting the attention of several female passersby.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "That's disgusting."

"Imagine how bad it would be if we'd slept together."

"Thank Merlin I turned you down, then," Hermione said, grinning for the first time.

He winked. "The offer stands."

"I think there comes a point in a friendship where it's too late to sleep together," Hermione said.

He waved a hand. "I would know if such a rule existed. It doesn't."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Are you suggesting that I buy one of Snape's properties?"

"I thought I'd distracted you," he said.

She smiled. "That's hard to do."

His expression sobered. "That is precisely what I'm suggesting. Lyonesse Hall is in shambles and needs… proper restoration."

"What on earth makes you think that I could restore a wizarding manor? Or even be interested in doing so?"

"Why, your connection to the previous owner, of course."

Hermione looked away. "Don't bring up memories I'd rather forget."

"I think a project would do you good," Blaise said, running a hand through his

hair.

"When would I have time to renovate this manor?" Hermione asked. "In case you haven't noticed, I work overtime all the time."

"I've noticed," Blaise said quietly. "You work twice as hard as everyone else for little pay and virtually no appreciation." He paused. "They take you for granted."

Hermione waved a hand. "I just have to prove myself is all."

"You've spent six years being shunted from department to department. You have 'proved' yourself ten times over. Petty jealousy and too much red tape have effectively halted your progress. You know it and I know it. Your talents would be better used elsewhere."

"Like, in renovating the manor of my dead potions professor?" Hermione took a mouthful of ice cream. "No thanks."

"You said that with your mouth full."

"I know."

"Why do you want to work for the Ministry, Hermione?" Blaise asked, licking his ice cream off the spoon.

"I want to make a difference."

"And are you making one? Are you happy?"

"Happiness has nothing to do with it," she said.

"Do you care about your job?"

She sighed. "I want to care."

"See," he said, twirling his spoon in the sundae as he looked her straight in the eye. "That—there should be a spark in your eye, a humorous tone, anything. They're sucking you dry while you wait for them to pat you on the back and move you forward."

"I tried not waiting. It didn't work."

Blaise nodded. "Which is why you need to leave."

"And renovate one of Snape's homes."

"If you see fit."

Hermione slumped in her seat. "Can we talk about something else? Please?"

"You hate your work."

"Blaise—"

"Tell me the last supervisor who actually appreciated your work."

She thought a moment. "Brenda Cole."

"And how long ago did you work for her?" Blaise asked.

"Three years ago," Hermione said, taking an extra-large scoop of ice cream in her spoon.

"You need a project. You need something to do. You need to get active again." Blaise paused. "You need to care."

"Since when are you my therapist, Blaise? You have watched this happen for years, and you haven't said a word," Hermione interjected, eyes blazing. "If you care so much about me, why stay silent?"

"Something about today," Blaise said. "I could remind you of how I've tried to bring the subject up, but you shot me down. But there's something about today. Something about _you_ today."

Hermione shook her head. "There is nothing different about today."

"If you say so," Blaise said, and he let the subject drop.

Hermione was seething. Another meeting with another insipid colleague. Honestly, where did the Ministry find these people? She knew that after Voldemort's _coup d'etat_ at the Ministry, people had been reluctant to come back to work, but really—it'd been seven years. Couldn't her supervisors try to find competent people to fill these positions?

She was running on empty these days, and the conversation with Blaise yesterday had done nothing to quell her impatience. _You've spent six years being shunted from department to department._ He was right, and that stung. She'd developed a reputation as a troublemaker, which was apparently code for "effective at her job." Well, someone had to get things done, and the berks she worked for made it obvious that the bureaucratic chain of command and all other things invented to feed their egos superseded any attempt at constructive reform. Yes, Kingsley had run a tight ship immediately after the war. But he'd begun to let the reins out years ago… would that her supervisors would do the same.

She shook her head. She was late to a meeting with her present supervisor, the rotund and thoroughly ridiculous Mr. Brown. Hermione nodded to his secretary as she was waved through the receiving area and into his office.

"Ah, Miss Granger," Mr. Brown said. "Do take a seat."

Hermione sat in one of the spare chairs opposite his desk. She folded her hands, schooled her expression, and tried to ignore the feeling that she had done something to upset him. Again.

Mr. Brown took a few moments to sort the papers around him, leaving her a bit unsettled. When he pursed his lips, she girded herself for the inevitable.

"I have a report on my desk informing me that the Castiglioni case has been referred."

"The Italian Ministry has jurisdiction, sir," Hermione said, carefully controlling her tone while her insides burned. This was not happening. Not again.

"The Italian Ministry may have jurisdiction, but there were two other people who

had to sign off on this order—"

"Only one signature is necessary for the referral, and those two others you mention are currently on their honeymoon in a Fidelius'd location."

At this, Mr. Brown's face became splotchy with red. Hermione wondered whether she'd pushed him too far, but it was the truth—Mr. Brown's daughter had been itching to get out from under her father's thumb, and everyone knew that the honeymoon location had been placed under the Fidelius Charm in order to prevent Mr. Brown from checking up on her. Everyone except Mr. Brown, or so it seemed.

"There is a chain of command, Miss Granger," he said in a saccharine tone. "One that your… your _war hero _status does not allow you to ignore."

If she had a galleon for every time a supervisor said that, she would be a very rich woman. Well, richer than she already was.

"Sir," Hermione started, rubbing her forehead, "I am perfectly competent at my job—no, I excel at my job," she finished, remembering Blaise's words. "I am the smartest witch on your staff with the most successful track record, the highest N.E.W.T. scores—"

"And the most troublesome record, which leads me to question every accomplishment on your resume. I know your reputation, Miss Granger," he said, standing.

"Sir, given that only one signature is necessary for the referral, I broke no rules here."

He pointed a finger at her. "You wreak havoc—"

"I solve problems, you mean?"

"You act without permission—"

"I do not need you to sign off on everything I do—"

"Out of my office, Granger! You're on desk duty for the rest of the week, and don't even think about fighting it!"

Hermione closed her eyes.

Enough.

She rose. "I will be tendering my resignation to you by the end of the day, Mr. Brown."

He looked as if he had been struck dumb.

"Now, Miss Granger, see reason here…" he said as he followed her out of his office and into the general bullpen.

"No!" she exclaimed, turning on her heel, pointing her finger at him, ignoring how the entire office had gone quiet. "I am sick of being berated for actually getting things done! I am sick of being called a troublemaker when I _excel_ at what I do! I am sick of being told that I am here only because I fought in the war! I am sick of having people assume that I am here because of Harry, and I am sick to death of being held back from advancement when you damn well know I deserve it! And most of all—" she took a deep breath "—I am sick of my supervisors ignoring Shacklebolt's example. We are no longer in an immediate post-war state, and it won't kill anyone to use a little creativity to get the job done. What do you care more about, Mr. Brown—serving the magical community or fueling your own ego?"

The room was silent, save the staplers, which had kept on stapling. Refusing to look at anyone, Hermione marched into her office, packed her things in seconds, and walked out without a second thought.

A few hours later, Blaise sent her a bouquet of flowers and a Muggle greeting card with a half-naked man on the front.

_Fantastic exit, darling. Wish I could have seen it—I've asked Judy to Pensieve it for me. Rumor has it Mr. Brown collapsed after you left. Sweet Merlin, you're delightful. _

_Love,_

_Blaise_

Hermione sat on her sofa drinking a cup of tea. She had opened her liquor cabinet but decided against it; she needed to think properly.

She had quit her job.

_She had quit her job._

Merlin, what was wrong with her?

The problem was that nothing I_was/I_ wrong and that perhaps something about all this was in fact quite right. It was indicative of her state of mind that she was not worried. Truth be told, she was a bit numb, and she felt a modicum of relief. A modicum.

Bloody hell. She shook her head. Blaise was right. She wasn't reacting like—like herself—at all. She didn't need to worry, per se, as she had enough galleons in the bank to live a life of leisure for at least a century, but she should have been riled up and upset at it, at the injustice of it all.

She was tired. So tired.

She looked around the flat, well furnished but sparely decorated. At the moment, the only décor of note was the bouquet of flowers from Blaise. It'd taken her forever to find a vase. She inched her foot towards the bouquet, and flicked her toe against a flower. Daisies. She had developed a strong distaste for daisies recently—well, in the last hour. They were so bloody _happy._

Damn Blaise.

The daisies looked positively vulgar set against the neutral walls, all unfriendly, cool tones that she hadn't bothered to fix in the last six years. In fact, she hadn't done anything to the flat itself. The few items she cared about were in her bedroom, within summoning distance at all times, which probably suggested things she'd rather not think about.

She'd quit her job, but this was not home. This was not where she wanted to spend her days. But then, there wasn't really anywhere in wizarding London where she'd want to spend time. Blaise had a constant stream of visitors, Ron was traveling with the Cannons and when he wasn't, well, there were visitors, and Harry and Ginny were pregnant—again. James was a dear, but goodness, he was a toddler, and that aside, there was no room for privacy in that house. And the problem was, even though those options seemed so unsuitable, they also seemed like the closest to "home" she'd ever get.

The only solution she could think of would be to go away. Only for a little while… just long enough to get herself sorted out…

Hand trembling, she leaned forward and drew a file from her bag. In a moment of weakness, she'd asked a friend to get a copy of the advertisement of Lyonesse Hall.

She looked at the picture and read the description:

_Lyonesse Hall was built in 1573 by Severin Prince. uAlthough conforming to the typical E-shaped plan of the Elizabethan era, the external appearance of Lyonesse has a marked Dutch influence, undoubtedly the legacy of Prince's wife, Annalien. Behind the Dutch-style gabled facade are ornate fireplaces, elaborate plaster ceilings, and a collection of English furniture of the highest quality. It possesses a renowned Portrait Hall, and the library once housed some of the finest collections in wizarding Britain. Of note is the magnificent Great Chamber with its splendid barrel ceiling and the bay to the left of the entrance, which is occupied by a two-storey window that lights the Great Hall (many of the 576 panes are still the original 16__th__ century glass)._

_While the front lawn is manicured but spare, the Elizabethan-style gardens behind the home are unusual in content and layout, and there is an orchard planted with old varieties of fruit. The gardens and orchard sprawl across the back lawn, jutting up against the rocky crags that border the Atlantic Ocean. _

_Lyonesse Hall is a modest manor, but its lifeblood has always been the myth of Lyonesse, a country said to exist mere miles off the coast of Land's End, Cornwall. The manor's proximity to Land's End has aided the Prince family's claim to be descended from King Mark of Cornwall, the uncle of Tristan. Given that no proof of ancestry ever surfaced, and that the last living member of the Prince family died without an heir, any connection the Prince family may have had to Lyonesse has been lost._

_If interested, contact the Department of Magical Properties & Estates._

She had a note half-written before she realized what she was doing.

Did she really want to do this?

Damn Blaise.

The next afternoon, Hermione was packing—even if she wasn't buying a manor, she had to go somewhere—when she received an owl from Kingsley.

_The Leaky Cauldron, 7 o'clock. I'll be brief._

She crinkled her brow. Was this about the hall or her… scene… with Mr. Brown? She hadn't kept up with Kingsley much over the last few years, and given his investment in Snape's affairs, it was more likely to be about the hall, but… She checked her watch. A few hours more. She'd keep packing.

Hermione walked into the Leaky Cauldron at 7 on the nose and saw Kingsley at the bar, chatting with Tom.

"Minister," she said, smiling at the reproachful look he gave her. "It's been too long."

"Hermione," Kingsley said, patting the barstool next to him. "I heard you put in a bid for Lyonesse Hall."

"Right down to business, then," she said, feeling somewhat relieved.

He nodded and signaled Tom for drinks. "Is this something you've been thinking about, or—"

"More of a whim, really," she said.

He raised his eyebrows. "I cannot recall the last time I heard you do something on a whim. Well, until this week."

A smile touched her lips. "It's time."

Kingsley's look was kind but serious. "Do you know what you'll do with the house? It needs a lot of work."

"I have nothing but time," she said. "And I have the money, so you needn't worry."

"Will anyone be assisting you with the renovation?"

"Y'know, I'm inclined to do this by myself—take off for a while, just… be by myself, for a while." She stared at the dark sheen of the bar and ran her hand along the surface.

"You know there's a house-elf that comes with the property."

She winced. "Must you say it like that?"

"So long as you are a tenant, it is not within your legal purview to free him."

"What's his name?" Hermione asked, and Kingsley smirked at her, as if sensing her intent.

"Pip," he replied. "I sent someone from the department to speak with him and inspect the property this afternoon. He's rather—off—this elf. Considers himself an orphan, and I suppose that in a way, he is. A house elf in a home without Master—or Mistress."

Hermione nodded. "I understand."

Kingsley looked her straight in the eye. "You may have difficulty negotiating a contract with Mr. Goetz tomorrow. It's why I wanted to see you. To give you fair warning."

Hermione crinkled her brow. "What sort of difficulty?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it," Kingsley said in a low tone. "At first I thought he coveted the property for himself but couldn't match your bid, but… his interest in the house is almost unnatural. Wizarding manors," he said, shaking his head, "they can incite dangerous fervor in people."

"Not you?" Hermione asked, grinning.

"Wizarding manors all claim some connection to grandeur, to myth or legend—I've no idea why people put stock in the claims. Honestly, your interest surprised me."

"Why?"

"You didn't seem the type," Kingsley said. "Hermione, what do you intend to _do_ with the manor?"

"Renovate it. Beyond that, I don't know," she said softly.

"You haven't given it much thought, or…" he trailed off.

"I honestly don't know," she said.

Kingsley's shoulders slumped in what looked like relief. "Not to be indiscreet, but someone suggested that given your interest in… justice… that you might use the manor as a museum or a memorial for Snape."

"He'd hate that," Hermione said flatly.

Kingsley's expression softened. "Yes, he would."

"To Snape," Hermione said, lifting her shot of Firewhisky.

"Severus," Kingsley said quietly, and they threw back their drinks.

Hermione was late to her meeting with the Head of Magical Properties & Estates, in no small part due to being told the wrong meeting time twice. Seeing as how Mr. Goetz's secretary was Mr. Brown's mistress, she should have seen it coming.

She entered Mr. Goetz's positively gaudy office with some trepidation. Her meeting with Kingsley had put her off her appetite.

"Do sit, Miss Granger," he said, gesturing toward one of the plush Victorian chairs in front of his desk.

She sat, crossed her legs, and said nothing.

"Your interest in Lyonesse Hall is… surprising," Mr. Goetz said, adjusting the gold spectacles on his nose.

"What interest does the Ministry have in my interest?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her tone measured.

"None—" he started.

_Liar._

"Mr. Goetz," she interrupted. "I have the money, or do you believe that the goblins of Gringotts have deliberately misled you as to my ability to pay for the property?" She arched an eyebrow.

"No—"

"Then I see no reason for this meeting," she said, standing. "I have the money. Do send the contract when it is ready."

The man looked desperate, searching, struggling, and when his eyes lit up, Hermione inwardly cringed, knowing he'd invented some reason or other to keep her there.

"We've reason to believe that this house may react badly."

"React badly?" she asked, surprised in spite of herself.

"Do you know anything of the Prince family?" Mr. Goetz started, rounding his desk with a supercilious grin. "They were one of the grandest, proudest, most vehemently anti-Muggle families in England." He paused. "We will _let_ it to you for three months, after which we will conduct an assessment of the house in order to determine whether it is willing to accept your presence."

Hermione blanched. "Are you suggesting that the house is sentient?"

"You are not overly familiar with wizarding manors, are you, Miss Granger?" Mr. Goetz asked in a syrupy tone, and it took everything in Hermione's willpower to stay silent. "Magical manors are not sentient, but they are certainly sensitive to their owners, yes. What's more, they are capable of discerning the owner's magical signature, including blood origin. Which is why Lyonesse Hall will remain in Ministry hands—for now," he finished, as if that was some sort of consolation.

She stayed silent for a moment, thinking as to how she could best combat such a ridiculous invention. "Here are my terms," she started slowly. "The contract will be approved by Minister Shacklebolt. I am sure you are familiar with his… personal interest in the last member of the Prince family," she added, berating herself for her lack of subtlety, but delighting in how Mr. Goetz slowly sat in his chair. "At the end of this three month term, _I_ will determine whether the house is suitable for my needs. I will agree to this three-month probationary period, obviously offered out of such deep concern for my well-being," she added, noting his panicked expression. "For which I thank you, Mr. Goetz. I will inform Minister Shacklebolt of the terms of the lease and of how ownership will transfer to me immediately upon the conclusion of the three-month trial—we wouldn't want the Ministry to control who can own what real estate, would we? Rather reminiscent of the war…" She trailed off, drumming her fingers against the desk, and then rose from her chair, watching as Mr. Goetz shrank into his. "I'll be in touch." She stuck out her hand and met his eyes, daring him to not take it.

Mr. Goetz's lips were drawn in a thin line. "As long as you are a tenant, any items of value will revert to the Ministry," he stated. "That is the last of my terms."

_The truth outs._

She grinned. "Absolutely." And she grasped his hand and shook it without a second thought.

It wasn't until she stood at the gates of Lyonesse Hall and felt the wards drop that she began to have second thoughts. Suitcase in one hand, wand in the other, she walked up the front lawn slowly, suddenly intimidated and a bit worried that perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.

Buying an old wizarding manor to fix up when she had no interest in renovation, architecture, or the relics of pure-blood families—save their legacy of prejudice—seemed a rather preposterous idea, all things told. But by God, it was different, and oh, did she need different. It was also removed from the greater populace of wizarding Britain, offering seclusion from all but the most persistent visitors.

She was a bit startled as she passed the lion statues that framed the path as it wound down the lawn, surprised to find—well, lions, of all things—at the home of a family so well known for their fealty to Slytherin.

She hadn't visited the property in advance—she'd looked at pictures, but was essentially letting it sight unseen. She couldn't quite explain that, but nothing about this decision made sense.

An examination of her motives had proved futile. Impulse, desire, boredom, longing. They all ran together, hinting at something else. She didn't know what she was longing for, but she didn't think it was something grand like love or purpose. It was the tangible _it_ that gave every day a structure, a hum, some thread that led her through each hour, a thread that promised some sort of peaceful benediction at day's end. Hermione wasn't hoping to find a pot of gold at the other end; right now, the rainbow—thread—path—whatever—would suffice.

And the manor, with its many projects and opportunities for discovery, would suffice quite nicely. At the very least, it offered sanctuary from the hassles at the Ministry, reprieve from questions.

She'd visited Harry the other day to let him know she was moving away for some time. His one question had been "Why?"

She found that she didn't have an answer. Because she was sick of trying to right wrongs, of having doors slammed in her face. Because wizarding London didn't feel like home anymore. Because London itself didn't feel like home. Because, truth be told, she was feeling rather homeless. As if somewhere along the way, she had lost her anchor. Or perhaps her anchor had lost her, and she was just now waking up to the realization that what had sufficed in the past left her painfully bereft in the present.

But Hermione hadn't known how to say all that to Harry, so she had simply said, "Because." And perhaps it was that lack of eloquence—for once—that had prompted Harry to say, "All right. Now get out of here and _do _something."

Sometimes best friends knew exactly what to say.

She neared the end of the path, stopping to admire the beautiful bay window and the glassy panels that shone in the sunlight. Smiling, she opened the surprisingly small door and stepped inside.

Hermione scarcely had time to register details of what she was seeing—the portraits framing both sides of the entrance hall, surprise at how small the hall was, and the presence of some indescribable scent that hinted of vanilla and musk—before the telltale _crack_ of Apparition drew her attention to the shadows at the end of the hall.

A small figure walked toward her, and she gulped, knowing full well who it was. In short order, the house-elf of Lyonesse Hall stood before her, clothed in a pillowcase, hands on his hips, nearly-invisible lips drawn in a thin line.

"You is being the Miss who is letting Lyonesse Hall?" The voice was high, but the tone was almost gruff.

"Yes, I am Hermione. A pleasure to meet you, Pip," Hermione said, extending her hand. She wasn't surprised when he didn't take it, but that didn't stop sadness from settling in the pit of her stomach.

"Why is Miss letting Lyonesse Hall?" Pip asked, arms folded across his chest.

Her eyes widened. "I wanted—" How best to describe it? "—I wanted a change, Pip. I… I left my job at the Ministry of Magic, in London. I wanted to… get away… for a while. And the former master of this house—"

At this, Pip let out a strangled noise.

"Pip? Are you all right?"

Pip looked up at her with a look that could only be called righteous indignation. "_Mister_ Severus is leaving us with no reason. _Mister_ Severus is not wanting us. _Mister_ Severus is leaving Pip an orphan!"

"Pip," Hermione started, tears springing to her eyes in spite of herself, "Professor Snape—he was my professor, see—he is dead."

Pip put his head in his hands and wailed.

"Pip—Pip, please don't cry," Hermione said, kneeling down on the ground so she was face-level with him. She dared not try to touch him. "I'm here, see, and I want to buy the hall."

At that, Pip looked at her strangely. "But the Ministry wizard is saying Miss is only letting the hall."

Hermione nodded. "I wanted to buy it, but the Ministry is… forcing… me to let it for three months. They seem to think that the house will react badly to me seeing as how my parents are Muggles." Better to be honest sooner rather than later.

Pip laughed, a squeal that rang throughout the hall, standing in sharp contrast to the harsh sound of his tears. "The house is only treating Muggle-borns badly if the master or mistress is _wanting_ the house to act badly. If Miss is the only person being in charge of the house…" Pip held up his hands.

"You mean, the house will not react adversely to my presence?" Hermione asked.

Pip shook his head. "No. But—" he started, a gleam coming into his eye. "Why is Miss wanting to let the house?"

Hermione was confused. "I… I want to let the house. It's something different… it's a project… it's…" She stumbled, trying to figure out how to express what had clearly failed to be expressed before.

"Is Miss wanting the ledgers? Because Pip is not knowing where the ledgers is."

"What ledgers?" Hermione asked, dumbfounded.

Suddenly, Pip's eyes looked hopeful. "Is Miss not knowing about the ledgers?"

"Pip, I've no idea what you're talking about. What are—"

Pip jumped up and down and reached for her hand, taking it and abruptly jerking her forward so that she almost fell to the floor. "Please, let me stand up," she said, chuckling as she got to her feet.

"Pip is taking Miss Hermione on a tour of the house. We is going now," he said. "Pip is being so lonely, Pip is excited to tell Miss about the house!"

Hermione could scarcely contain her grin.

By the time Hermione sat down to dinner, which Pip had insisted on preparing, seeing as how it was her first night, she had seen the whole house, and was positively in awe. It was a modest manor, all things considered, but even in shambles, it was stunning. Clearly, Severin and Annalien Prince—and their descendents—had believed that the devil was in the details. The plaster ceilings with scenes straight out of a History of Magic textbook, the barrel ceiling which was ornate without being ostentatious (which would also need to be restored), the stunning bay of windows in the Great Hall, the library—oh, the library… they hadn't spent nearly enough time perusing it, but suffice it to say, the room was charmed to extend an extra storey, and there had been four fireplaces in that room alone…

Pip had prepared the kitchen and master bedroom for her arrival, but had awaited her instruction for the other rooms. They hadn't yet toured the grounds, as night had fallen by the time the tour was finished, but Pip assured her that she could explore the grounds easily. There were only gardens, he said, and an orchard, and empty stables. It was very difficult to be alone without a master or mistress to serve, he said. He'd relied upon the portraits to keep him company. Hermione had walked down the Portrait Hall, which was home to a dozen of the largest portraits she had ever seen, but they had been asleep, or feigning sleep. No matter. She would have time to become acquainted with them later.

Pip had chattered on about the history of the home, sprinkling in tidbits about previous owners, but had remained tightlipped on the subject of IMister/I Severus, his mother, and his grandfather, from whom he had inherited the house. She'd been able to suss out that much.

It surprised her, how being in the hall made her think of him, more than she ever had in the last few years. She had thought of him almost to the point of obsession in the first few years after the war, particularly when she had prepared his defense with Kingsley. But for a long time, her thoughts on the subject of Severus Snape had lain dormant.

Perhaps it was because it was so difficult to imagine him here that she… well, imagined him here. Pictured him walking through a doorway, imagined his robes billowing around a corner. His voice, even in its lowest tones, would have reverberated through the two-storey high Great Hall, and the thought of it was enough to send a shudder down her spine.

She shook him from her thoughts during dinner, and she proceeded to do so for the rest of the evening, even as she climbed into bed, though she paused for a moment to reflect that the master bedroom was in dire need of new sheets.

She was here for herself, not out of a sense of guilt or obligation. She supposed that her thoughts about Snape would subside over the next few days, that she was thinking of him to avoid the overwhelming fear and anxiety and anticipation and excitement that had dueled for prominence in her throughout the course of the day.

She tucked the sheets up about her neck and turned onto her side, quickly falling into the deepest sleep she'd had in years.

Her first morning in her new home. She stretched her arms above her head, and as she did so, she turned to see a cup of coffee appear on her bedside table. _Pip_, she thought, shaking her head. She'd told him she preferred to brew her own pot in the morning. But she sat up and took the cup in her hands, accepting it for the gesture it was. The heat permeated the ceramic and warmed her hands, and she took a small sip, silently summoning her slippers and robe. The floor was cold and she'd awoken in the middle of the night several times to cover herself; the house was drafty and the weather charms obviously needed to be reinforced. That was one of the first things she would do this morning.

She shrugged her arms into the silky white robe and slipped her feet into the warm slippers. Coffee in hand, she set out of the room, determined to investigate how the grounds looked at sunrise. She practically skipped down the stairs before turning down the hall to find the entrance to the back lawn.

The house cast its dark shadow over this west end of the house. The grounds were still wet with dew, the glimmer on the grass the only sign of life. The back gardens had been beautiful once, elaborate—even pompous—in their grandeur. But what once had been lush was now overrun and dead, dry and brittle leaves snapping under Hermione's charmed slippers as she examined the state of things. The sides of the garden were terraced; it would look lovely once she was finished. But she was determined to ignore the garden as she walked toward the rocky crags. It was beautiful, how the trees bent over the crags, as if peering to see the Atlantic slapping up against the rocks below. Hermione climbed the steps to the wall that bordered the crags, and she stood, overlooking the Atlantic, looking up to the sky above and admiring how the ribbons of sunrise spiraled, almost touching the edge of the sea.

Suddenly desirous of seeing sunrise in its full splendor from the front lawn, Hermione quickly climbed down the wall and, not bothering with the windy paths, tramped across the remnants of the Elizabethan-style square flowerbeds, careful not to spill her coffee as she walked into the manor, back down the hall, and to the front entrance, shoving the doors open to see the sunrise greeting her. The front lawn was practically naked compared to the back; there was nary a flower to distract from the heady colors, save the lion statues on either side of the front gate nearly half a kilometer down the lawn.

She walked down the slim path that extended from entrance to gate, the oranges and reds and pinks and purples bursting forth across the horizon, their colors vibrant even in the heavy morning mist. She sipped her coffee for a glorious second before choking on her second sip, sputtering the coffee all the way down the front of her white robe. She felt it drip down into her cleavage, but her eyes were fixed on the sight before her. Shrouded in the mist, there stood a ghost riding an ethereally white horse.

The ghost looked like Snape.

_Author's Note: _Lyonesse Hall is, in fact, Trerice, a manor in Cornwall. Portions of the manor's description were lifted from sites about Trerice; those sites are linked on The Petulant Poetess and OWL. Architecture buffs will forgive me if I take liberties with the manor and grounds to suit my own purposes. ~grin~


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR. She graciously lets us play with her toys, and I promise to put them back when I'm finished.

Author's Note: There is a gracious, generous team behind this chapter: Subversa, cheerleader and alpha reader; tonksinger, the resident equine expert who horse-picked the chapter; Septentrion, who took the time to brainstorm breed names with me; Shug (sshg316), beta reader and all-around encourager; Machshefa, psych!beta extraordinaire; and richardgloucester, whose critical eye strengthened this chapter in more ways than I can count.

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><p>He hadn't meant to be seen.<p>

He'd been far enough away that there was a glimmer of hope she hadn't seen him, but her posture—standing there frozen, coffee cup slack against her thigh with no mind for the liquid spilling down her front—told him all he needed to know.

It had started out a perfectly normal morning. He had risen before dawn and subjected his body to the usual exercises: fifty push-ups, fifty pull-ups, and a forearm plank for as long as he could stand it. He had attended to hygiene with spare ablutions; short hair was easy to maintain. It was Saturday, so there was no need to check in on the shop this early.

He'd been out for his customary morning ride on Perdita, one in which he was sure to pass by the gates of Lyonesse, when he'd seen her. Hermione Granger—that hair could belong to no one else—standing in the middle of the lawn in an indecent white robe, staring at him as if she'd seen a ghost. He'd pressed his heels to Perdita, signaling an urge to gallop that he hadn't felt in years. A need to escape.

There had been no scream, no name, not even a whisper—just shock—but one thing was certain: she'd recognized him.

Shit.

Perdita slowed to a walk as they followed the path that wound around the crags just outside Land's End. He looked down at his hands, holding the reins, letting his breathing slow. He struggled to regain his composure while berating himself that he was so out of practice; his heart was racing. Perdita turned her head, looking at him, and he bent forward to rest against her neck, stroking her. "Perdy, what am I going to do?" he murmured. She nickered and he laughed. "You wish. It'd mean more visitors, wouldn't it?" Her ears pricked forward, and he sat back up, lazily running his fingers through her silver-white mane. "I know," he said quietly, not knowing quite what it was he knew.

He walked by Perdita's side as they reached the edge of the woods and her pasture came into view. He took off her saddle and bridle, opened the gate, and walked in, refreshing her water as she trotted off to graze. That was the trick of keeping up appearances in the village; it wouldn't do to have a magical self-caring barn in plain sight. Besides, he preferred to care for her himself.

"I'll be back later," he said, closing the gate as Perdita nickered at him. Taking a deep breath, he realized how tired he was. He tore his shirt off as he walked up to the house; he'd exercised her more vigorously than he had in years, and in so doing had exhausted himself.

He strode through the front door, sprinting up the stairs to his bedroom, where he chucked the shirt into a hamper and tore off his jeans. He walked into the master bathroom—his one extravagance—and stepped into the stone and glass shower, turning on all showerheads with one flick of his hand.

He'd been so careful, he thought, as the water sluiced down his body. He'd known the Ministry would come sniffing around, and they had, but he hadn't counted on their finding a tenant so soon.

She was only letting the property; that, he could tell from his inspection of the wards, which were devoid of her magical signature, thus suggesting that the Ministry had shut her out of the property's security. Stupid, stupid girl.

He'd no idea why she was only letting the property when the Ministry intended to sell it. Lyonesse required repair, and no mere tenant was about to take on restoration of that kind. Then again, it would be like the Ministry to take advantage of the girl's work ethic and let her restore the property whilst remaining a tenant, thus having no legal ownership over her work and no ability to reap the rewards that would be sure to come after her lease expired.

He shook his head. The terms of Granger's lease mattered little to him. All that mattered was that she'd seen him, and Merlin only knew how much time he had before she went spouting off to Potter or Weasley.

Not that they'd ever be able to find the Dower House, but …

But.

He took some shampoo in his hand and massaged his scalp slowly, the weight of what he had to do settling over him like a lead weight.

He'd have to Obliviate her.

An hour later, he stood in front of the fireplace in the sitting room, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed, almost in meditation. He had closed all portals and connections between his home and Lyonesse years ago. The day after Dumbledore returned him to Voldemort, in fact. The day after Cedric Diggory died.

It had seemed so easy then. Close the portals. Sever the magical link between Lyonesse and its Dower House. Sell the Dower House to himself under an assumed name, all through Muggle authorities, thus bypassing the Ministry altogether. That was part of the beauty: in spite of his family's beliefs, their proximity to Muggle villages and seclusion from other wizarding families meant that Lyonesse had dual paperwork. All he'd had to do was file a report with the Ministry saying that the Dower House and the land around it had been sold to a Muggle, that it had passed inspection and was thus ready for the magic-to-Muggle transition, and the paperwork had been buried. Thank you, Dumbledore.

Severus had no fear of the Ministry discovering the Dower House. It had gone under a unique variant of the Fidelius Charm; he was certain that no Ministry wizards would be showing up on his doorstep.

He sighed. Lyonesse Hall held no value for him, sentimental or otherwise. His mother had hated the place, and he knew the only reason his grandfather had welcomed him was because, half-blood or no, he was the last of the line, and blood was blood.

But. He hadn't been completely honest with Dumbledore when he had gone through the house on the Ministry's behalf, inspecting the fireplaces and ensuring that no connections between Lyonesse and the Dower House remained. The thing was, the houses were still linked—would always be linked—through blood. His blood. Somehow, and Severus didn't know how, Prince masters of old had bound their blood to the house so that it would always recognize members of the Prince family. A precaution against Polyjuice and disguise, it was something only the oldest and most paranoid families had done. Malfoy Manor was the only other manor Severus knew of that also carried such protections.

It was why, even though Severus had severed connections with Lyonesse, the manor would still bloody well _know_ him. Although he had no idea what sort of signals the manor would offer; each house was unique, and he'd spent scarcely any time in it as Master. He wasn't worried about the Ministry noticing them, but Granger …

Well, she was a Muggle-born whose only previous experience in a wizarding manor consisted of torture and, oh yes, torture. He doubted that she'd noticed how the fires crackled when Lucius or Draco walked into a room.

He rubbed his fingers almost reflexively against the smooth vial in his hand. He'd brewed this particular draught long ago, hoping he'd never need it. The draught would temporarily mask recognition of his blood and hopefully prevent the manor from recognizing his presence, and in so doing, also prevent Pip from realizing that the house had recognized a master. Pip was not going to be happy if he realized Severus was in the house.

The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime, and Severus berated himself for having waited so long.

His wand arced in the air, carefully tracing a pattern, and he murmured an incantation that didn't sound entirely human, and the stones of the fireplace before him moved, molding themselves into a doorway.

He Disillusioned himself, downed the draught, and opened the door.

On the other side of the door was the library of Lyonesse. He looked about the room and, satisfied that it was empty, turned his thoughts to the situation at hand. Granger was a smart witch, and he supposed he should be grateful for how she had contributed to his defense, but she was intrusive, coming into too many areas of his life—and his death, for that matter. At the moment, she threatened the life he had so carefully cultivated, and that would not do.

He cast a myriad of charms before leaving the library to slowly walk down the hall. He heard chatter and stopped, closing his eyes to listen more carefully. The kitchen. Hermione and Pip were in the kitchen. Wondering how long the potion would hold before he was noticed, he crept down the hall and cast an amplification charm so he could hear what they were saying.

"I is telling Miss Hermione, there is not being a ghost at Lyonesse Hall."

"I know what I saw, Pip. A ghost on a ghost horse."

"Pip is not being sure, Miss Hermione."

"It was a ghost, Pip, and it looked like Snape," Hermione continued, but her tone lacked conviction.

Interesting.

He thought for a moment, considering the brief exchange he'd heard before they turned their conversation to how Pip shouldn't prepare coffee for Granger in the morning.

A ghost. She said she'd seen a ghost on a ghost horse. Bloody hell, hadn't the girl learned anything at Hogwarts? She knew what a ghost looked like! What was she playing at?

But. He paused, vaguely listening to the mundane talk now coming from the kitchen and considered the circumstances. Fact: she had seen him at a distance. Fact: it had been years since she had seen ghosts with any regularity, and her experience was entirely limited to those at Hogwarts, who were not exactly a representative group. Fact: she had just woken up and obviously possessed at least a glimmer of doubt about what she'd seen. The mist had been heavy, and he had been riding Perdita, which was perhaps the most pertinent fact of all. Depending on the light, Perdita did indeed look like a ghost. That was the nature of her breed—she was of _le fantôme d'Arabie_, after all—and she inevitably lent some of her nature to her rider.

Now his thoughts coalesced quickly as he weighed the pros and cons. Granger thought she'd seen a ghost, and a ghost that only _looked_ like him. She hadn't asserted that it _was_ him.

It would be so easy. Severus smirked, and listening to be sure that Pip and Hermione hadn't returned to their discussion, he turned on his heel and walked back down the hall.

It was an idea.

He stroked the leather strap that bound the book as he sat down in his armchair by the fire, a glass of whisky within reach, questioning the value of the idea for what seemed like the thousandth time.

He had debated with himself all day whether or not this was a good idea, and he was slowly coming to the point where it mattered not one whit whether it was a good idea or a bad idea or even an unwise, reckless idea—at the end of the day, this was a pursuit that would give him pleasure and do her no harm, and that was that. He'd thought, what did it mean if something like this would give him pleasure? He had the shop, and he had Perdita.

And he was lonely.

He took a swig of whisky, but that did nothing to dispel the thought. Relishing the warmth that seeped through him, he closed his eyes, letting the thought that work and books were not enough to sustain him slip away. He'd thought they would be. But.

But. This idea, it … excited him. There was simply no other word for it. It would provide a welcome bit of occupation, an excuse to check up on her and see what she chose to do with the manor. And surely his proximity would be a benefit, as he'd be able to sense any alterations in the wards. Not that there was trouble looming, but it discomforted him greatly to know that she had been shut out of the manor's security. It had been part of what shocked him about seeing her there: he'd sensed the Ministry's wards and had assumed the manor remained empty. Seeing her there alone and so blatantly unprotected had roused something in him that would not rest.

He'd spent seven years looking after her and old habits were hard to break. Besides, looking after her gave a nice gravity to this otherwise frivolous pursuit.

Satisfied that he had settled the matter, he reached for the book that he had set aside. The good news was that he was intimately familiar with his source material. He'd found the book during one of his last visits to his grandfather, the summer after Potter's first year when he and Dumbledore had realized that plans must be put into action. It had soothed him during that time, this book, this reminder that perhaps he was not alone in his experience, that there were those who understood.

He turned to the first page, settled into the chair, and opened his mind, ready to absorb the story all over again.

Around one in the morning, satisfied in his review of the source material and relatively certain that Granger would be asleep, he stepped through the passage into the Lyonesse library. This time, he hadn't bothered with the draught.

In a moment, Pip was standing in front of him, nearly shaking with fury.

"What is _you_ doing here?" Pip asked, his fists balled at his sides.

"Hello, Pip," Severus said, endeavoring to maintain a cordial tone. "I've come to request your assistance."

Pip folded his arms across his chest. "You is not being my master!"

"The manor seems to think so," Severus said, noting how the other fireplaces in the library were practically leaping out of their encasements.

"You is giving us up! And I is knowing you is still being alive and you is not being here and—"

He held up a hand. "You are bound to the house, and the house is bound to me."

Pip was enraged. "You is being a BAD master! And do not think the house is not knowing it!"

"Pip," Severus said, looking the house-elf square in the eye. "Do not raise your voice to me."

Pip glared back at him.

"As I said, I require your assistance. Do I have your word that you will help me?" Severus asked. "You have been loyal to this family and you served me well all these years, just as I asked," he continued, his voice low. "I would be indebted to you if you would assist me in this new venture."

Pip grimaced. "How is Pip being needed?"

He cast a number of charms to silence the Portrait Hall before rousing them from their slumber to explain his plan. While most of them merely nodded, he was met with particularly vitriolic resistance from his great-great-something Aunt Charlotte, which, in hindsight, should not have surprised him.

"You are not _him_," she hissed, flinging her blonde curls over her shoulder and turning so that her back was to Severus.

"I am the last living Prince," Severus said, and Charlotte ran and crouched in another portrait. He strode across the hall to the landscape in which she was hiding. "You will not say a word to Miss Granger about my identity," he said.

Charlotte nodded but looked doubtful, and Severus touched the landscape, uttering several unintelligible syllables. When he didn't perceive a difference, he drew a pocketknife from his pocket, nicked himself on his thumb, and pressed his blood to the portrait.

When he turned, satisfied that he had achieved the result he sought, he found Pip staring at him, his hands on his bony hips.

"Mister Severus is not supposed to be silencing portraits," Pip said.

"We can't let Miss Granger know our secret, can we, Pip?" Severus asked, silently healing his thumb.

Pip sputtered. "But the portraits—"

"Will respond to my blood if not my mastery of the home and will still be able to talk with you and Miss Granger—just not about me." He tilted his head. "I believe you were looking for something."

Throwing a hurt look over his shoulder, Pip scampered up the stairs.

Severus returned his attention to the portrait only to find her feigning sleep. He chuckled. "Sleep well, Auntie Charlotte," he said, enjoying how the form of address made her bristle. He cast a glance to the staircase. The portraits had been silenced, and he had no reason to believe that there were any other portraits in the house that would compromise him. Pip was busy using his special ways of Summoning to seek out all papers that would assist Severus in this endeavor. He looked up at the door near the top of the staircase. It wouldn't hurt to check on her. Just to see.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, arriving at the master bedroom in a moment. He stood in the doorway, not daring to go any closer, and he watched as she turned from front to side, and the covers slipped. He had only intended to check in on her, but seeing her sprawled out half-naked on his grandfather's bed had halted any thoughts of protection.

In spite of the fact that the manor was drafty, she wore nothing but knickers and an oversized t-shirt. The t-shirt was rucked up to just below her breasts, revealing her soft belly, and her tiny black briefs rode up her cheeks, so that his gaze went undisturbed from foot all the way up her curvy legs and round arse.

He swallowed and ignored the heat rising in him. She looked lovely. And entirely too unprotected. Goddamn the Ministry for failing to properly ward the house and for forbidding her from doing so.

He shook his head. Reckless, he was being reckless. What if she were to awaken while he was standing in the doorway, staring at her like some lecherous pervert?

He fled the doorway and walked down the stairs as quickly as possible, finding Pip in the kitchen. "Pip," he said sharply. The house-elf jumped and turned with a grimace. "Yes, _Mister_ Severus," Pip said, glaring at Severus.

"Watch over Granger," Severus said, the words coming out of his mouth before he even thought. "She is a woman alone."

But Pip was nodding, clearly already of the same mind.

"Very well," Severus said. "You found the second volume?"

Pip handed him the leather-bound book. Severus ran a reverent finger across the cover.

"And there are no portraits or physical likenesses of him anywhere in the house?"

"No," Pip said. "Pip is not finding any pictures or portraits of him."

"And this is the only other book? He left behind no personal writings?"

"Oh, he left many letters," Pip said. "But they is being held in the box that has no key."

"And where is this box?" Severus asked.

"It is being buried on the northern border of the estate. There is many boxes like that, many Prince masters who buried letters in the ground and cast enchantments to prevent their ever being read but by the person the letter is being for," Pip said, as if he had heard that phrase a thousand times.

Severus paused. "That would be an intoxicating challenge for the lady currently residing in this house," he said. "Can you cloak the letters?"

"The letters is already being cloaked, but Pip can cloak them again, if Mister Severus lets Pip use his own magic."

"Of course you may, Pip. The privacy of former masters is paramount, is it not?" Severus asked, casually glancing around the room.

Pip gulped. "Pip is understanding you perfectly, Master Severus."

A smile quirked at the edge of his lips. "Good. The next time we see each other, be sure to address me in the manner we discussed," Severus instructed, ignoring Pip's accusing look. "Good night, Pip." And he slipped through the fireplace.

Severus tried to avoid visiting Land's End in the summer, but in this case, it couldn't be helped. Though the town was a bloody tourist trap, there was a shop that had precisely what he needed, and its proprietor was one of his few acquaintances. He shielded his eyes from the morning sun as he ducked into the shop, thankful that the streets were still relatively empty.

The bell on the door rang as he walked in, and the brunette behind the counter looked up from her paperwork, her eyes brightening immediately. "Lionel! It's a bit early for Halloween, isn't it?" She grinned, and he forced a smirk onto his face, ignoring the punch in his gut that word inevitably inspired.

"Halloween has come early this year, Clara."

She flashed him a smile so warm it could melt sugar. "Well, what are you looking for? Don't make me drag it out of you."

"Something from the early 1790s. French Revolution. As authentic as you can make it; nothing frivolous," he said.

She arched an eyebrow that said _well, obviously_, and grabbed a stack of papers, flipping through them, obviously seeking out where costumes for that period would be located.

"Looks like the few items I have are in the back. Come on," she said, gesturing at the door that led to the storage room in back.

He couldn't resist. "Inviting me to the back room already?"

She flushed. "Lionel Smith, you would do well to remember that I'm a married woman, and that my husband is _your_ competition."

Ignoring the fact that it was hardly a competition if he outstripped her husband every quarter, he merely said, "It's my duty as an old bachelor to keep the married women on their toes."

She snorted and practically shoved him through the door to the storage room, where he was delighted to find precisely what he was looking for.

As he buttoned up his shirt, his fingers grazed the scars, small and faded but still definitely present. He'd have to remember to keep those covered.

His rescue had been a curious thing. One moment he had been bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, letting go of memories he had once held dear, and the next he had been lying in his bed at the Dower House, Fawkes weeping into his neck and Perdita standing by his bedside, looking rather like a mother hen fretting after her chick.

He had reached a hand out and stroked her muzzle and scolded her for being in the house, and she had whinnied and nuzzled him gleefully.

Really, she was too smart for her own good.

Given that the two animals next to him possessed magical powers of transportation, and that both species were notorious for their loyalty to their masters, he had not questioned the method of rescue, even though he had spent several days wallowing in the misery of being alive before Perdita literally dragged him out of bed by his trouser leg. Fawkes obtained copies of the _Prophet_ for him, and given the persistent outcry to find his body and interviews with various Order members proclaiming him a hero—bollocks—he came to be of the opinion that Fawkes and Perdita had exercised perfect discretion in the rescue. They had saved his life, for some reason, but they had at least recognized his desire for solitude.

Solitude that was, it appeared, swiftly coming to an end, he thought, ignoring the small fact that this situation was born of his own loneliness and, truth be told, his own desire.

As he strode into the library, he couldn't help but notice how the fireplaces crackled high to greet him. He looked down at his clothing and at his hands to make sure the effects were still in place. He'd have to keep improving the potion so that the illusion would hold for a longer period of time, but an hour was more than enough for this first meeting. He was especially pleased that his minor tweak had allowed the potion to incorporate his clothing in the illusion. After all, it wouldn't do to have a ghost walking around with corporeal clothing.

A ragged sound came from a corner of the library, and his heart started a bit.

It sounded like a woman crying.

Walking softly, he wove through the aisles until he could see her through one of the shelves. Granger was huddled up in a chair, crying, head in her hands, and though she was speaking, he could barely make out the words.

Bloody hell. She wasn't supposed to be _crying_.

He straightened his posture and turned around the corner, coming into full view of the chair.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," he said.

She screamed and practically fell out of her chair, before her eyes widened in recognition. "Who—who are you?"

He smirked. "Edmund Prince. At your service."

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><p>Author's Note: Shug is the first beta to have a cameo. Can you guess which character she is?<p>

Perdita's breed, _le fantôme d'Arabie, _translates as "The Ghost Arabian." I'm envisioning her as part of a magical, phantom-esque sub-breed of Arabian horses. And just to prove that I am endeavoring to keep some things true to life, Arabians are one of only two breeds that can be white. See? I'm sticking to fact!

So far, we have seen a wistful Hermione, a manor near a coastal village, an orphan, and a horse, thus having introduced most of the terms of Ari's prompt. Up next: rakish Snape. ~grin~

And now, a bit of a game: ten points to the reviewer who guesses the work from which two of the new names in this chapter are drawn and why the names may have been chosen.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR. No profit is being made.

A/N: Ari asked for a rakish Snape, and what Ari wants, Ari gets. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a rake is "A fashionable or stylish man of dissolute or promiscuous habits," and "rakish" may also mean "raffish, jaunting, dashy." My Snape is not a rake in the true, Austenian sense of the word (see: Wickham), but nor is he the stuff of more typical fanon personas, if there is such a thing. I'll refrain from offering an essay on how every fanfic features an OOC Snape, as we all offer a mere interpretation of JKR's creation, but as this Snape is perhaps not the sort that you're used to, the terms of Ari's prompt bear repeating.

I apologize for how terribly late this update is. I have several major life Life Changes coming up, not the least of which is marriage, so your patience is enormously appreciated.

And last but not least, many thanks to the wonderful team behind this chapter: Shug (sshg316), Subversa, tonksinger, machshefa, and richardgloucester.

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><p>He was here. The ghost whom Pip insisted didn't exist, the ghost who looked so like <em>him<em>, the ghost who had no name—well, apparently he had a name. Edmund Prince.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said, willing her voice not to shake, hands frozen at her sides, too self-conscious to wipe at the tears she knew were drying on her cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

He arched an eyebrow, and sweet Merlin, she had to look away, to look at anything but him, but the tears came in spite of herself.

"I might ask the same of you," he said, and she shut her eyes. Gods. She—she couldn't look at him. Curiosity warred with cowardice. He looked, he _sounded_ …

"Though the last thing I wish to do is inquire about your private life, it seems you are in distress, Madam."

She inhaled sharply and stared at the fire, which seemed to be crackling even more than it had before, if such a thing was possible. She turned slowly back to face him and focused her attention on the small details: the silver trousers, the embroidery on his otherwise simple waistcoat and frock, the hair pulled back in a queue. Anything to avoid his eyes.

"You look like the man who owned this house … before," she said quietly. "The resemblance is rather disconcerting."

"I am his ancestor, Miss Granger," he said, and something in her broke.

"Don't _say_ that," she said, rising from her chair and staring at him angrily. "_He_ called me that and … and … you sound just like him and you look just like him and you aren't him because I watched him die, and when I went back for his body, it was gone," she said, trembling. She took a deep breath. "Please never call me Miss Granger again."

She met his eyes, finally, and though they were the eyes of a ghost, there was something fierce in them, something that almost looked like the crackling fire.

"You hated him so much?" Edmund asked, inspecting his fingernails as he leaned casually against a bookcase.

Her lip trembled."I respected him. I respect him still. I regret his sacrifice, the price he had to pay. I regret that I didn't go back for his body sooner …" She trailed off, closing her eyes. "Forgive my behavior. You just … you look and sound … gods, I am sorry. We got off on the wrong foot," she said.

"Well, if I am not to address you properly, what am I to call you?" he asked.

"Hermione," she said slowly. "Just Hermione. And you? Do you want to be called Mr. Prince?"

He waved a hand. "I've had a few centuries to overcome the need for pomp and circumstance."

"And you was never liking it in the first place," Pip said, walking into the room. "You was sounding sad, Miss Hermione."

Hermione managed a smile. "I'll be all right, Pip. Edmund here caught me off guard, that's all."

"Was he making you sad?"

She crinkled her brow. "No—"

Pip nodded and quickly left the room.

"Odd, that one," Edmund said.

But Pip's presence had reminded her. "Why did Pip say there wasn't a ghost in the house? He obviously knows you."

"I am rarely here," Edmund said. "I am … bound, as it were, to another property."

Her eyes lit in curiosity, and he grinned. "I won't tell you which property. But to answer your earlier question as to what I'm doing here: I saw you the other morning and was curious about the new tenant." He paused. "Would you like to take a seat, Mi … Hermione?"

She sat back in her chair, feeling silly for having forgotten that ghosts didn't really sit, her insides still in upheaval. "I moved in a few days ago. I'm leasing Lyonesse for three months, after which I plan to purchase it."

"Then why the lease?" he asked.

"The Ministry of Magic seems to think that the house will react badly to me, seeing as I'm Muggle-born," she said, inwardly hoping that this wasn't a problem for Edmund.

He snorted with mirth, and she couldn't help but smile. "The Ministry hasn't changed. They still know nothing," he said.

"I should like to hear your observations of the Ministry's history sometime," she said.

"Presuming, of course, that I visit again," he said, something between a smirk and a smile on his face, and she found that she liked that expression. He didn't look as much like her professor.

"I hope you do," she said. "It'd be nice to have someone to talk to."

"Are you resorting to a ghost and a house-elf for company? Is there no one here with you, no regular visitors?" he asked, and even though she knew the question shouldn't bother her, it plucked at her heartstrings a little.

"One can be alone without being lonely," she said, staring at the floor, debating what to say next. Deciding that the truth was best, she looked him in the eye. "When I work out what's drawing me to this place, I'll let you know."

He nodded slowly. "So you are drawn to the manor and are in need of solitude or peace or what have you, yet you were in distress before I approached you."

"Isn't that a rather impertinent observation?" she asked.

"Your initial treatment of me was most impertinent. Fair's fair."

"Have you no manners?" Hermione asked, and his grin widened.

"Manners are a dreadful nuisance when one is a ghost."

She didn't know whether he was being serious or humorous or both. "You really want to know why I was crying? You're a complete stranger, and more to the point, you're male, and you still want to know?"

He shrugged. "I've nothing better to do with my time."

Perhaps it was the desire to talk with him, or perhaps the need for connection was too great, but for some reason, Hermione chose to overlook the slight inherent in his words. Taking a deep breath, she started, "I didn't realize how truly daunting the task of renovating a magical manor was. The Ministry didn't tell me, and the books I've been reading make it sound as though it should be as easy as a swish and flick." She laughed, but the sound was hollow. "I've been questioning every decision I've made in the last few hours."

"Do you wish to leave?" he asked softly.

She looked him in the eye and saw compassion rather than condescension; surprising, that. "No," she said. "I don't. But I don't know how to continue, either. Pip can only do so much, and the books I have are of no help in this matter."

"There are some tomes in this library that could be of assistance," he said, and she looked up eagerly. "Renovating a magical manor is a complex process. It taps into the magic from which the manor itself was wrought; it is not merely a cosmetic swish and flick but a process of redirecting magic itself. Learning to work with a particular manor's brand of magic is difficult, even for the most accomplished of wizards. It is not work to be taken lightly."

"So I am finding out," she said, looking up at him. "Is it impossible? Is this manor too … damaged?"

"Nothing is beyond repair," he said, holding her gaze.

She bit her lip.

"But I must be going," he said. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'll be by to check on your progress."

He turned to go, and she called out "Wait!" as she stood, surprised by his sudden exit. "What makes you so sure I'll continue with the restoration?"

He paused and turned back to look at her, hands in the pockets of his breeches, and she suddenly realized how striking he must have been when alive. "I recognize a Gryffindor when I see one," he said, and turning, he disappeared from sight.

* * *

><p>She didn't know how long she'd stayed in that chair after he … after the ghost left. Even though it was early afternoon, she felt like taking a nap. She was bloody exhausted from her failed attempts at restoration earlier in the day, from even thinking about the restorations, and, perhaps most of all, from the shock of seeing a ghost who resembled Severus Snape far too much for her own liking. But he hadn't been like her professor, not entirely. He'd smiled. Laughed, even. She was sure Severus Snape had smiled and laughed in his life, but probably not with someone he was just meeting, and certainly not with his students.<p>

It was pointless to speculate. There was much she would never know about Severus Snape. Edmund Prince, on the other hand, was a fascinating introduction into life at Lyonesse. At the very least, he used proper grammar. She winced at the judgment; she already cared for Pip, but Pip was not one for good conversation.

There were so many questions she hadn't asked Edmund. His clothing suggested eighteenth or nineteenth century; she'd have to find a genealogy book before curiosity ate away at her innards. Her excitement was rolling over her in waves, which only exacerbated her exhaustion, but the excitement demanded satiation, so she supposed that she should set about finding any family documents that mentioned him … and she should probably search for those books about the restoration of magical manors while she was at it.

She was on her feet before she knew it. Thinking on what she most desired, she took out her wand_. _Following its direction, she wove her way through the numerous shelves; the library was far denser than it first appeared, and she had a fleeting thought that a reduction charm had been placed on the room.

The book would have been impossible to miss. She grinned when she saw it. It was an enormous tome, leather bound with gold filigree woven through the binding. Striking, tasteful, and outrageously expensive. She tried to open the book and frowned in consternation when she couldn't. The pages—so old as to look like papyrus—were seemingly stuck together, refusing to admit her entry.

"Pip!" she called. "I need your help!"

Pip appeared at her side in an instant. "What is Miss wanting?"

"I can't open this book."

Pip's eyes widened when he saw it. "That is being the Prince family genealogy, Miss Hermione. If it is not wanting to be seen, you is not being able to see it. I is being sorry, Miss."

"Is there any other book or place in the house that contains a record of the Prince line?" Hermione asked, disappointed but undeterred.

Pip thought, and a smirk spread across his features before he looked up at Hermione with a grin. "There is being one place that is being forgotten by the family for a very long time."

"Where?"

Pip grabbed Hermione's hand, and she felt the tug of side-along overwhelm her.

When she opened her eyes, she stood in what looked to be a musty attic.

"This is being the room over the stables," Pip said. "The stables was being burned down years ago, but the magic of the tapestry was saving it."

"Tapestry?" Hermione asked, watching her step as she followed Pip across the dusty, debris-ridden room. Suddenly, she slid. "Bollocks!" she exclaimed, catching herself. "Pip," she started, exasperated, "you could have told me we were on a downward slope."

But Pip didn't respond. "Over here, Miss Hermione!"

She shook her head and dusted herself off before slowly walking to where Pip stood. "_Lumos_," she muttered, and she gasped when she saw what was on the wall.

It was a tapestry, like the one at Grimmauld Place but older. Her eyes immediately trailed to the end of the tapestry; the last members recorded on the tree were in the mid nineteenth century. Her eyes trailed up two generations before settling on a black mark.

"A second child is blacked out here," Hermione said, squatting in front of the tapestry. "Oldest child, John, born 1763. Married to Charlotte, and then their children are here," she said, her finger tracing the line down. "But this second child is blacked out. And the generation before only has three children, two of whom died young, and the third lived to be eighty, and the ghost I saw definitely wasn't eighty…" She trailed off. "Pip, was this Edmund's spot on the family tree?"

Pip stared at the spot and nodded. She inhaled. "Well, older brother born in 1763. That tells me something."

"This is telling you more," Pip said. He put a finger on the spot and the blackness immediately receded, revealing the entry.

"Oh my goodness," Hermione said. "I didn't know—"

"Elf magic," Pip said, smiling.

"Edmund Reginald Prince, birth year 1765, death year 1793," Hermione read. She did the maths in her head. "Twenty-eight. He died when he was twenty-eight. No wife, no children, either. Or—" She rested her chin on her hand. "Did he have a wife and children? Why was he blasted off the tree?"

Pip said nothing.

"Can you not say?" Hermione asked sadly. "Is that another elf magic thing, the not being able to disclose family secrets?"

Pip nodded, and she supposed that would have to suffice.

"Is you being ready to Apparate back to the main house?" Pip asked, rather abruptly.

Her stomach rumbled, and she rose, supposing that she should probably eat something. "As long as I can come back here soon."

"Of course," Pip said, reaching for her hand. "And Miss Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"The portraits is knowing much family history, and they is not being bound like house-elves."

She grinned at him. "Thank you, Pip."

After a quiet breakfast, Hermione approached the portrait hall with some trepidation. "Hello," she said. "I know you all haven't really spoken to me yet, and I know I'm just a tenant, but I do hope to own this property one day—" she noted that some of the portraits bristled "—and I wanted to ask you about the ghost of Edmund Prince."

She was met with the expected silence and decided to forge ahead. If she wasn't intimidated by her superiors at the Ministry, what were a few dead pure-bloods?

"I know that he was born in 1765 and died in 1793. He was the younger of two sons and did something to get himself blasted off the family tree."

"If you want to know more, why don't you ask him yourself?" the portrait to her right quipped.

Hermione immediately approached the woman with curly blonde hair. "What's your name, ma'am?"

"Charlotte Frances Prince," the lady answered. "Edmund was my brother-in-law."

Hermione could scarcely contain her grin. "What can you tell me?"

"Unfortunately, quite little," Charlotte responded, pouting. "But if you really want to know more, ask him about Hyacinth Gray."

"Hyacinth Gray," Hermione repeated. "Is that a place? Or a name?"

"Can the two not be one and the same?" Charlotte responded, and she slipped out of her portrait before Hermione could respond. Hermione called out to the portrait, but the hall was silent once again, Charlotte hidden in some other ancestor's frame.

"Hyacinth Gray," Hermione said quietly. "I'll remember that."

* * *

><p>AN: In JKR's world, ghosts are semi-transparent, pearly white beings whom she termed "distillations" of their real life personas. I am taking liberties with her assertions in an interview that they are not thinking entities; to my mind, ghosts possess all knowledge and abilities their real life personas had and are capable of thinking critically. Moreover, some ghosts (e.g. Moaning Myrtle) can tap into the physical realm. While Snape, of course, is not a ghost, these details are ones Hermione would keep in mind as she interprets him.

Points to the reviewer who can tell me who Severus' "Auntie" Charlotte is named after.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR.

A/N: Many thanks to machshefa, richardgloucester, sshg316, Subversa, and tonksinger, the best beta team a gal could ask for. Any errors here are my own.

EDIT: I've been behind posting on versus other sites like The Petulant Poetess and Ashwinder, and I realized that I forgot to edit the A/N in chapter three which mentioned my impending nuptials (when it was published on the other sites, I was not yet wedded). The nuptials (and a variety of other huge life events which have prevented the updating of this story) have occurred, so while I appreciate the well wishes, it's a done deal! :-)

* * *

><p>Severus tugged at the cravat to loosen it and fell into the large leather chair opposite his fireplace. He Summoned a glass and a bottle of whisky; Gerard and Clara had selected a truly singular malt for his last birthday, the sort one should reserve for celebratory occasions, and damn if this wasn't just such an occasion.<p>

His heart was still racing, and he supposed that it was natural to be out of practice at this sort of thing. At least his body recognized that this adrenaline was of the pleasurable sort, otherwise he'd have had his head in the toilet the minute he got back.

The illusion had been successful, and he toasted his own success. He'd continue to tinker with the potion so that he could masquerade as Edmund for longer periods of time, of course, but—he couldn't help the smirk that spread across his face. Merlin, he was good.

He was relieved, in a way. Relieved that she had fallen for the illusion, but then, he'd known she would. Gryffindors could always be counted on where sentiment was concerned. A small part of him was pissed off at the Ministry for being content to let her blunder around with no preexisting knowledge of or skill with magical restoration. She was Hermione Granger, but she was also a Muggle born, and frankly, blood mattered in these sorts of affairs, not because of skill, but because of background. She had no idea what she was dealing with, and no book would have been able to stress to her the gravity of undertaking renovation of a magical manor.

On the other hand, the Ministry's general incompetence at everything gave him a wonderful reason to be around more often. He could give her the proper reading material, advise her course of action—he could practically do the renovation himself without ever leaving a trace of his magical signature. The thought practically made him giddy.

And in the meantime, he could redirect his energy towards figuring out a way to better secure the property. He was relatively certain that he knew what the Ministry wanted with it, and while Miss Granger—Hermione, he reminded himself, Hermione—might accept their asinine rules about protocol, he had no such compulsion.

He sipped his whisky, closed his eyes, and sank further into the chair, more satisfied than he'd been in years.

And if, in the dead of night when he was unable to sleep, he took some of his blood-masking draught and slipped across the barrier between homes and allowed himself to find the books she would need, and if he then placed them on her bedside table, and if perhaps he tucked an errant curl behind her ear…

Well. The world could just go to hell.

* * *

><p>When Hermione awoke, she immediately noted the stack of books on her bedside table. Pip must have brought the ones that Edmund ordered.<p>

No use imagining how these manors worked. She had the books, so she would read. After breakfast, and—she shuddered as a windy draft swept through her room.

After she reinforced the weather charms.

"Miss Hermione is being brilliant at weather charms! Pip has never felt so warm in the manor," Pip said as he set Hermione's breakfast plate in front of her.

"It needed the reinforcement, Pip," Hermione said, slathering butter on her toast. "Might I ask the extent of what you are allowed to do to … keep up with the place?"

At this, Pip started beating his head against the wall, and Hermione knocked her chair over in an effort to get to him. She took his arms firmly in her hands but didn't manage to avert his head, which came smashing into hers as though he was still standing at the wall.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, falling back on her rear. She rubbed her head as Pip let out a wail.

"Pip is sorry! Pip is not meaning to hurt Miss, and Pip is promising—" At this, he let out another wail.

"Pip, look at me," Hermione said firmly, still wincing from the pain of the head butt. "And stop crying."

He immediately did so.

"Look, I know that I'm not Mistress, but I really, really don't want you to hurt yourself like that. And I really, really don't want you to feel badly about the state of the house. I should have phrased it more carefully. I was just wanting to inquire as to what sorts of renovations and upkeep you are able to help me with. I'm assuming that the Prince family put some kind of bind on you that would prevent you from doing extensive work on the place?"

Pip nodded.

"Odd that such an enchantment would hold. Wouldn't the enchantment end once Professor Snape …" Hermione trailed off. House elves took great pride in their work, she'd learned (gradually, over many years), and it was obvious from the state of the house that Pip had been restrained from doing such work.

"Pip is being bound to the house by Prince family blood, Miss. Pip cannot be being freed from the enchantment unless a member of the Prince family is doing it."

She nodded slowly, digesting the information. "But why on earth would Professor Snape not have freed you to keep up with the place since he so obviously didn't?" She immediately cringed at the words. She knew how—busy, for lack of a better word—he'd been and imagined that the manor hadn't ranked too highly on his priority list. But still. To let such a lovely manor fall into such disrepair?

It was the closest she'd come to criticizing him.

"He was being busy, Miss. He was not caring about Pip," Pip sputtered, a wayward tear falling down his cheek. Hermione knew better than to wipe it away, but she patted his arm reassuringly.

"It's all right, Pip. Now … wait, the Ministry technically holds the house. Can they free you from the enchantment that restricts your work?"

"Only the Prince family can be freeing Pip, Miss."

"But the last member is dead," Hermione said, exasperated.

"Pip is not being clever, Miss Hermione. Pip is not being able to work a way out of the enchantment."

"Well, I'll just have to find something, then," Hermione said, ignoring the fact that she was a tenant and not the owner. Damn the pure-bloods, she thought. Damn them and their prejudice, damn them and their control issues, damn them, damn them, damn them. The thought occurred to her that Snape had been a half-blood, and she thought, well, damn the half-bloods, too.

Pip declared that he was going to clean the Portrait Hall, and so Hermione went back to her seat to finish breakfast and organize her thoughts. She had every intention of spending the day working on the kitchen and searching the manor for any reference to Hyacinth Grey (Charlotte was still hiding from her), but such plans were shot to hell when Blaise stumbled out of the fireplace, coughing and beating his chest.

"Merlin, do you plan on cleaning that fireplace anytime soon?"

"Blaise!" Hermione exclaimed, at first delighted before recalling one of the components of her lease. "Wait—how did you get in here? I had the Floos blocked!"

"Spent the night with"—cough—"a lovely higher-up from the Department of Transportation who"—cough—"offered to set up a temporary Floo connection for me."

She rolled her eyes. "Typical."

"Did I mention his name is John?"

Oh. Well, that was different. She arched an eyebrow, and he laughed.

"Come here, old girl," he said, wrapping her up in his arms and lifting her off her feet.

"Good to see you, too, Blaise, though next time you should probably send an owl. I had plans today."

"To what? Spend time locked up in an old manor driving yourself batshit crazy with all the restoration that's so obviously needed? Dear Merlin, this place is a fright." Blaise immediately started opening and shutting cupboards and cabinets, inspecting the state of the kitchen. Hermione ate up the last bit of toast as he did so.

"So why are you visiting?" she asked.

"Do I need a reason to see my dear friend?" he asked.

"Well, no, but—"

"I take it you've had no visitors since arriving."

"I made it perfectly clear to my best friends—including you—that I wanted to be left alone for a while."

"And Potter and Weasley accepted their dismissal?" Blaise rolled his eyes. "Gryffindors."

"They respect my boundaries."

"You are at a critical point in your life, Hermione," Blaise said, now crawling on his hands and knees as he looked under tables and in floor-level cabinets. "You need someone to _violate_ those boundaries."

"You're doing a mighty fine job of it at the moment."

He grinned as he leapt to his feet. "It's official. We're going shopping."

"You came here to take me shopping? Blaise, what are you doing?" she asked as he dragged her up from her seat.

"Do you intend to live in filth for the next three months? We need to shop. Though Land's End is bound to be insane on a Saturday, hmm, there must be a village nearby." He scratched his head.

"Pip mentioned a small village—"

"Perfect!" Blaise said, and Hermione immediately regretted speaking up.

"I hadn't planned on outfitting the manor with new … everything," she said, waving her hands around the kitchen. "I can reinforce most of the material here until I've the money and inclination to shop. I mean, given the state of the manor itself, I'm just not that interested in buying new silver."

Blaise looked at her crossly. Hermione had known him long enough to know when to fight back and when to just give him what he wanted in order to get it out of his system.

"But I suppose if we have to go shopping, well …" She thought a moment. "I need some potions ingredients. And yarn."

Blaise blanched. "The pots and pans are almost worn through. Half the plates are broken, the silver is rusted, and you honestly intend shop for potions ingredients and _yarn_?"

She shifted and placed her hands on her hips. "I need potions for restoration and have decided to take up knitting again. It's calming."

"You knit?"

"I knit."

He grinned. "Since when were you domestic?"

She bristled. "I used to knit with my gran. And Molly."

Blaise shook his head. "Whoever thought that the mistress of a pure-blood manor would knit?"

"I'm not the mistress, as you well know."

He smirked. "Well, don't be surprised if you find new cast iron in your cupboards next week."

"If you say so."

"I'm making you breakfast tomorrow."

"I don't recall asking you to stay over."

"Well, some man needs to watch over you while you sleep."

Now he was crossing a line. "Are you saying that I need protection?"

"You cast a mean hex, but—_fuck, _Hermione!"

She crossed her arms across her chest, inordinately satisfied with herself as Blaise doubled over. "You were saying?" she asked, infusing her voice with as much maternal warmth as possible.

"Oh, _fuck_."

She watched as he stumbled over to a chair. "Are you always this articulate when hexed?" she asked.

He gritted his teeth. "Shut up, woman."

"See, now we've a reason to go to town for potions ingredients. I need to make a paste to soothe that sting."

"It'll wear off." He was looking at her almost admiringly.

"My stinging jinxes have improved over the last few years, Blaise. You could be that way for days."

He shut his eyes. "Oh, sod it, we'll go to that village for potions ingredients. But I'm buying you new cookware before the weekend is out!"

Hermione healed the jinx before they left, of course, and was most gratified at Blaise's reaction to the village, which was appreciative silence. She felt similarly. Coleworth was quaint, clean, and sparsely populated. It was a scant mile from the manor, and she was thrilled to have found such a quiet, decidedly Muggle village that would suit her needs for the next three months. There was a grocer and a baker, and she was delighted to find that the herbal shop Pip had described was situated right next to a yarn shop. When she pointed the happy coincidence out to Blaise, he shrugged and pointed to the pub across the street.

"You know where to find me," he said, acting as though he was ready to take off.

"Blaise!" She tugged him back over to her.

"I'll take you for a drink after, how's about that? Now, which shop first?"

She thought a moment. "The herbalist."

"For those ingredients for the paste that will fully heal my stinging jinx?" He arched an eyebrow.

She smacked his arm. "I healed your arm before we left. Don't make me feel guilty."

"I'm actually quite proud of you. It was a rather Slytherin tactic."

"See, _that_ makes me feel terrible."

"I know. You love me anyway."

She sighed and noted the sign above the door. Smith & Co. was printed in silver letters on a worn, terribly scratched black door. "Yes, Merlin help me, I do," she muttered as Blaise opened the door for her with a small bow.

"You can't jinx me in public," he murmured as she walked by.

She turned on her heel. "Watch me."

Blaise put a hand on her shoulder. "Look, I can tell that my comment got to you. I'm sorry, all right? It's just a big manor and the Ministry wards aren't that strong, and yes, I am suffering from that insipid male instinct to protect a woman one cares about. Can't you reinforce the wards?" he asked bleakly.

She shook her head. "I tried. There's some asinine rule about tenants not being allowed into the security in case they are able to keep the Ministry out, or some nonsense like that. But I should be okay. Besides, Pip is there, and he likes me a lot, and do you know how powerful house elves are?"

He nodded. "I know, I just … you're isolated."

"What is it with men being worried about a woman who's isolated?" She groaned and turned to properly take in the shop.

Blaise came up from behind and put his arms around her. "I will always worry about you, Hermione." He pecked her on the cheek. "I love you, goose."

"As much as you can be attached to anyone," she said with a grin, shrugging out of his embrace.

He put a hand to his heart in mock horror. "That hurt!"

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked to a table, appreciating the shop's elegant simplicity. She'd been in too many apothecaries that were haphazardly thrown together, wizard as well as Muggle. In such situations, the owner knew where everything was, but damn if a customer could find anything. At least in wizarding shops you were able to Summon what you needed, unless the owner was paranoid and blocked customers from doing such, which made any visit painfully slow.

But this: this was a Muggle shop with plenty of atmosphere—the long wooden tables set up in rows, ingredients in antique-looking bowls and jars, the low lighting, the cracked glass in the windows. But it was organized and clean, with all ingredients and prices clearly labeled and small bags, jars, sampling sticks, and Sharpie pens for marking. Hermione walked slowly along one of the tables, inspecting the quality of the ingredients. She dipped a sampling stick in one particularly lush bowl of cherry juice, sniffed, and flicked her tongue at it. She closed her eyes. Tasted like heaven.

"Hermione?"

She opened her eyes and started when she saw Blaise standing right next to her.

He grinned. "It's been fifteen minutes, and I can tell you're in your element. I'm going to the pub—come get me when you're ready to go back."

Hermione nodded her assent as she bent over a bowl to smell the mint leaves. She was delighted to find fluxweed next to them. She put a few leaves in a bag and marked the price before moving on to the next table.

The ingredients were all Muggle—spices, herbs, so on and so forth, with a few unique items like bits of bone—but as she reached the end of the table, her eyes widened and her heart started to race. Inhaling sharply, she went back to where she'd started and retraced her steps around the table. She walked to the table in the center of the shop and circled it, noting how ingredients had been arranged.

It was a guess, and she couldn't _feel_ anything, even as she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, allowing her magic to search the shop for any energy whatsoever. Nothing. She opened her eyes and breathed again, somewhat disappointed.

It was just—it was such an odd coincidence. A few of the more unusual ingredients—leeches, for example—had been placed near items such as fluxweed. Sure, some ingredients defied classification, and a shop owner starved for time might just set one bowl next to the other without thinking twice.

But both leeches and fluxweed were ingredients in Polyjuice.

Unable to get the idea out of her head, she circled every table, looked on every shelf, and found similar occurrences elsewhere. The ingredients were all organized logically, and there wasn't a discernable pattern, and certainly such accidental placements wouldn't be recognized by most wizards and witches, but then, most wizards and witches were not potions geeks.

The particularly unique ingredients could have been placed randomly, she supposed. But there were six junctures where unusual ingredients had been placed near at least one ingredient that formed either all or part of a potion.

Hermione had waved the shopgirl away with a noncommittal wave after Blaise had left, but now she approached the black-haired girl, intent on asking one question.

"Is the owner here?"

The girl's eyes darted to a door that probably led to the back room. "Not at the moment."

"What's his name?" Hermione asked.

"Lionel Smith," the girl replied, looking a bit confused as to the sudden interest.

Hermione nodded slowly. She didn't recognize the name. She glanced out over the layout again. It had only happened six times, and there were hundreds of ingredients. Could be a coincidence.

Hermione didn't put much stock in coincidence. She pursed her lips. "Is there a time when he'll be back in?"

"Couldn't say, ma'am," the girl said, staring at the counter, fidgeting with the edge of her apron.

"Is he a particular man, your boss?" Hermione asked, smiling.

The girl shrugged. "Depends on the day."

It was clear that she wasn't going to learn much about Lionel Smith from this girl, who was looking more skittish by the moment. "Well, I'll take these, then," Hermione said. She paid and walked out of the shop quickly, eager to tell Blaise of her observations and maybe—just maybe—have him come and take a look for himself. Depending on his state of sobriety, of course.

And it wasn't even noon.

* * *

><p>He had known the instant she walked in that he had to walk out. He did so, quickly, after instructing Caroline not to tell the brown-haired girl anything about him. Not that he was too worried—he'd given Ari's niece a job because of her skill with the product rather than the customers, and he was sure that the inquisitive Miss Granger would scare the daylights out of his reticent assistant.<p>

He walked into the woods behind the shop. It was too risky to Apparate; Apparition tended to send a burst of magical energy, and even Neville bloody Longbottom would sense something like _that_.

He shouldn't speak too ill of the boy. Longbottom had beheaded that damn snake, after all. He snorted; that was something.

Finally under the cover of the forest, Severus leaned against an oak tree, and ran his hands through his hair.

Bloody hell. He was hiding. From Hermione. No, no, Miss Granger—but how could he think of her that way and then call her Hermione with any familiarity and ease? He couldn't afford to upset her as he had yesterday; who would have known that his use of her proper name would send her into such hysterics?

There were not enough obscenities in the world for a time like this.

She was in his shop. With Zabini. He wondered at her words yesterday—she'd seemed lonely, had said she wasn't expecting visitors. But had she said those things, or had he asked and mistaken silence for assent? Had he somehow interpreted her answer through his own—he shook his head. That did not bear thinking.

He dearly hoped that she wouldn't return to the shop, that for some reason she'd find it disappointing, but he knew that such wishes were in vain. She had been fond of potions even if she'd lacked the instinct, and she'd been determined to make up for that lack with exceptional zeal. If her determination with the manor's restoration was indicative, such zeal to succeed at the seemingly impossible still infected her.

Half an hour passed before he saw Caroline beckon him back. If she thought her boss's behavior odd, she said nothing and kept her face blank. He appreciated that.

He paused at the back door. "Did she ask for me?" he asked.

"She asked for the owner, yes."

"Did she have a reason?"

"No, sir, but she'd been searching the shop quite thoroughly—almost like she was looking for something."

He swore under his breath, and Caroline asked, "Sir?"

He took a deep breath. She'd noticed something. What could she have noticed? He'd been so careful—

"Caroline, this may seem like an odd request, but you are never to say anything to that girl—woman—about me, my appearance, anything."

Caroline nodded. "She seems rather persistent."

"She's a bloodhound," Severus said shortly. "I will be working in the back room and laboratory for the next three months. Tell other customers—not her!—that I am ill. Or—no, tell her that I'm ill, if she asks. It'd be suspicious if…" he trailed off at Caroline's wide-eyed look, though to her credit she remained silent.

He really needed to consider giving Caroline a raise.

"Should I tell Jack?" she asked, her tone flat.

"I'll tell him," Severus said. His other employee was the opposite of Caroline in personality: enthusiastic, disarmingly charming, a positive flirt. Not that Miss—Hermione—was pretty, per se, but Jack wasn't exactly discriminating. Severus winced at the judgment, and an image of her sleeping half-naked in his grandfather's bed, hair spilled out on the pillow, knickers riding up her arse, came to mind. He felt a flush of heat reach his face, and he waved a hand to dismiss Caroline.

He leaned against the brick wall, the sun beating down on his face. No, he'd have to tell Jack, and knowing Jack, his curiosity would be piqued. He'd want to know everything he could about Hermione and her possible connection to Lionel Smith. For some reason, Severus had failed to strike the fear of God into Jack. He considered this a personal failure. He'd have to bloody confound the boy or—or something. He'd figure out something. Maybe he'd send Jack on vacation for the next few months.

He walked back into his shop feeling like a condemned man.

That evening, for the first time in years, Severus watched security footage of his shop. He had concocted an elixir and applied it to surfaces in the shop; it wasn't strong enough to register on someone's magical radar but subtly alerted him as to any wayward activity. Within the first six months, theft had essentially ceased, and rumors of Lionel Smith's sixth sense had been greatly exaggerated. There hadn't ever been a need to watch security footage; the only reason he employed a high-tech system was in case an incident requiring the police ever occurred.

He watched as Hermione and Zabini entered the shop, and he smirked. They seemed to be having a spat. But then Zabini came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and whispered something in her ear, and even his expression of feigned hurt couldn't stop Severus's hand from clenching the remote. What, precisely, were they to each other? She'd said she was—well, he'd assumed she was unattached. But Zabini's charm knew no bounds, and the way he'd embraced her from behind … so intimate. But what kind of lover was he if he allowed her to sleep alone at night in a drafty old manor "protected" by the Ministry? He took a deep breath and consciously relaxed his facial muscles. Merlin, he was tense. Why was he tense?

He focused his thoughts and watched her so intently he almost missed the moment when Zabini left the shop.

He needed to see what she had seen.

When she paused by the fluxweed and leeches, he knew, and he allowed himself some amount of self-recrimination. She'd paused six times, and each time he'd winced at himself. How could he have been so careless?

He'd tell Caroline to rearrange the shop tomorrow and to keep rotating certain items for the next few weeks. The next time Hermione stopped in, things would be different, and she would assume that such placements had been a coincidence.

He hoped.

But Merlin, he thought as he rewound the tape to watch her peruse the shop—dear Merlin, she was brilliant.

Hours later, after a glass of Ogdens, he held the blood-masking draught in his hands, debating whether or not to Disillusion himself and slip across the barrier once more. An image of Blaise and Hermione in _medias res_ arose, and he clenched the draught in his hand.

No.

Not tonight, at least.


End file.
